Fait Accompli
by ichigatsu
Summary: All signs point to Ron and Hermione eventually becoming a couple. But what do the two really think?


Author's notes: This is actually a fanfic of two things: J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series (duh); but more importantly, the theme comes from my friend Kacy's brilliant short story, Red Skies at Midnight (published in the Malate Literary Folio). This story is dedicated to anyone who's ever let go of someone they never really had. Which, judging from experience, makes all of us.  
  
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1 Fait Accompli  
  
Ron's laughing at me again. That's perfectly all right with me; it is one of the primary functions of a best friend to serve as fodder for amusement.  
  
"Only you would obsess over N.EW.T.s this early, 'Mione."  
  
If he says "'Mione" fast enough, it almost sounds as if he's calling me "mine."  
  
"They don't call it 'nastily exhausting' for nothing, Ron," I retort. "Best start preparing now. I'd rather not be nastily exhausted, thank you very much."  
  
"Oh, I don't know," Harry says, giving his practice snitch a toss. "Nasty exhaustion can be good sometimes, if you know what I mean."  
  
I snatch the snitch out of the air before Harry can catch it. "Yeah, like Quidditch," I say, feigning innocence. "Really, you and your raging hormones."  
  
Harry gives me a goofy grin, fit to break my heart. And it does. Because I can't smile back the way I know he wants me to.  
  
Instead, I toss him back his snitch. Honestly, that boy would play Quidditch all day if he didn't have to sleep, or eat, or save the world from Voldemort. For last year's Charms project, while everyone tried to do something useful, he researched ways to make the snitch faster and more elusive. And now, here he is, supposedly lazing the day away with Ron and me, catching the last few rays of sun before she sinks from view, and he still has a snitch in his hand.  
  
"There's more to life than grades, you know, 'Mione," Ron chides me.  
  
"Yes, I know. Five years with you two and I'd be daft not to know that. But grades are a good thing to have." I pull up blades of grass absently, and twirl them around my finger. "They have rules. They're something you can always count on. You get back exactly what you put in. Unless your prof's a biased git like Snape, who apparently pulls our grades out of a hat."  
  
"All things have rules," Harry says. "Not just grades."  
  
"Not all things. Sometimes, you give and you give and you get nothing back." I shake my head. "And then there are things that just blindside you, and make absolutely no sense. You of all people should know that, Harry."  
  
Harry laughs. "Even Voldemort is getting predictable."  
  
"Still creeps me out to hear you say the name," Ron says.  
  
"Ah, well, we'll kill him someday," Harry says, flat on his back, still playing with that goddamned snitch. Quidditch, he once told me, was a great way of viewing the world. "I've seen every possible human emotion out there on the pitch," he had said, eyes shining in earnest. "All the different ways people interact with each other can happen during any given game. And the best part is, especially when you're the Seeker, is that you can step away from it all and just watch everyone else make a fool of themselves, without getting involved. After all, it's my job to just watch. It's my job to observe."  
  
And I know that even with Harry tossing and catching that golden ball, seemingly distracted, he sees everything that's going on.  
  
"M' sleepy," I say, faking a yawn. Ron laughs and puts his arm around me, pulls me closer so that I can lean my head on his shoulder. Harry's eyes narrow a little, but he gives me another one of his smiles, this one much like one would give when indulging an overgrown puppy.  
  
Whenever we are like this, I'm always tempted to freeze time. This is my favourite position in the whole world, nestled in Ron's warmth. This is when I truly know that he loves me. That he trusts me, that he is utterly comfortable and at peace with me.  
  
"Will you look at that," Ron says, gesturing to the view before us.  
  
The sunset is magnificent, blood red streaks across a golden sky. The sun herself falls slowly, like a heavy, ripe fruit trying to defy the pull of gravity, but not quite succeeding.  
  
"I hate sunsets," I say, scowling. "I hate anything that means the end of the day."  
  
Ron ruffles my hair, which he knows I hate since it's messy enough without his assistance. "But then if the sun never set, we'd never see the night. Blue skies and sunlight get tiring after awhile. Not too mention hot. Besides, I think the stars and the moon look better than the sun and fluffy white clouds. The night gives you more to think about. There's so much hidden there. Unlike during the day, when everything is right before you and you don't need to figure things out."  
  
"The night is overrated," I say.  
  
"That doesn't make what's before us any less beautiful," Ron replies.  
  
Across the lake, I see Malfoy sweep across the Quidditch pitch on his broom. Despite his never winning against Harry, he does win against everyone else, and his flying is always an amazing thing to behold.  
  
Catching sight of Malfoy brings the boys' attention to Quidditch, naturally. Ron and Harry soon engage themselves in a heated argument over the latest sports-related issue—apparently there are people who want to bring back stooging, or some such nonsense, and…I don't really care. Their conversation washes over me, a soothing lullaby of meaningless words. My train of thought soon leaves the station, and I busy myself instead with inhaling Ron's scent. It's clean and fresh and wholesome, yet under that woodsy smell I can catch that faint animal aroma that all boys possess. I've never quite put my finger on it. A hint of goat, or perhaps wet dog. Disgusting, I know, but it's part of their charm, part of the pull that claims us poor women without anyone really knowing what's going on.  
  
It is a frightening and wonderful thing to have power over something you can never fully understand. Which is why I want it so badly, I suppose. And why Ron wants it, too.  
  
The talk has turned to flying, and Ron is heatedly criticising Malfoy's technique. He catches every flaw in the Slytherin's glide, the way he pulls himself out of a dive, the way he overcompensates when making a turn.  
  
He points to the solitary figure on the pitch. "Look at that. The way he flies—the twat takes too many risks. There'll come a time when we'll have to peel him off the pitch, you mark my words."  
  
"You should tell him one of these days, you know," I say softly.  
  
Harry throws his snitch with so much vehemence, that it catches in the branches of the tree above us. He'll get it back down later, I know. I'll be there to help him.  
  
I feel Ron's body stiffen. "Nothing doing, 'Mione," he finally says, after a very long pause. "He'll kill me, or hex me so bad, or think of something really nasty and Slytherin-like to get me expelled."  
  
I squeeze the hand on my shoulder. "Are you really sure, Ron? I mean, you don't know that—"  
  
Harry looks up at me, alarm and sympathy in his eyes. He shakes his head, and mouths "no." Before, I would wonder how he has the audacity to do this in front of Ron, but experience has told me that it's very safe. Ron is beside me, is talking to me, is listening to me, but his eyes are following the tall, blonde figure flying low across the Quidditch pitch.  
  
He hardly ever gets a chance to do this. So we let him. So I let him.  
  
"Don't know what, 'Mione?"  
  
Please, stop calling me that. Hermione's all right, although it's too long to say. Granger will suffice. Mudblood might even do, on occasion.  
  
"You don't see the way he looks at you, too," I reply. "And how he always bothers Harry and me, but in the end it's all about you. And how—"  
  
I take a deep breath. Ron is still looking far away, and Harry's face has grown even sadder.  
  
"How whenever we meet him, anywhere in school, his eyes always linger on you. Before, during, and after. Especially after, when you walk away, because he thinks you're not looking."  
  
But I am. Like a dragon guarding her egg, except it was never mine to guard.  
  
"Come off it, 'Mione. You're just saying this to make me feel better."  
  
I laugh hollowly, and slip away from underneath his arm. "We've been having this conversation for ages. Besides, I don't say things just to make you feel better, Ron. You know me better than that."  
  
"No, he doesn't," Harry mutters under his breath. But Ron doesn't hear.  
  
"You're serious," Ron says.  
  
"No, not really. I'm just telling you this so that you can get off your arse and do something about your pitiful state. I'm rather sick of hearing you whine about Malfoy for the past year or so, you know." I smile. "Of course I'm serious. Go tell him. It's something he wants to hear."  
  
"Well, you do know everything," Ron says, teasingly. I roll my eyes and swat him. It's become routine for us by now. Old habits between dear, dear friends.  
  
Friends.  
  
Abruptly, Harry pulls up a bunch of grass by the roots, tosses blades and soil into the air like a million snitches. "So listen to her," he says a bit stiffly. "Go tell him."  
  
"All right, I will." Malfoy is still flying; he is piloting his broom in graceful, controlled loops around the goal-posts. Ron's eyes have turned into omniculars; they are following every move. "Before we all go home for the summer. I'll tell him."  
  
"No time like the present," I say briskly. Harry gets up; I do the same. "Right after he touches down. Insult his flying. Or compliment him. Or just reach out and snog him. Trust me, any way will work."  
  
"Now this time you can't be serious."  
  
"I am." Harry takes my hand. "Really, Ron, he'd be crazy not to have you."  
  
He's still hesitating. I know if he doesn't go now, I will never again have the strength to push him. I've been doing this for the past I don't know how many months now, and I'm tired.  
  
"God damn it, Ron Weasley, just get off your arse and move!" I laugh a little, just to show him I'm not really mad. But he doesn't notice; he's up and striding over to the Quidditch pitch.  
  
Halfway there, he calls over his shoulder. "Thanks, Harry, 'Mione!"  
  
Harry looks at me, and I start laughing at myself. Best get used to that now. Soon, Ron won't be around much to laugh at me anymore.  
  
He won't be around much, period. 


End file.
